The Case of the Rent Boys
by stabbingcluedoboards
Summary: Sherlock and John dress up as a prostitute and her gay pimp in order to get close to the biggest drug lord in London.


John was absolutely humiliated. Why had his idiot flatmate chosen _this _case? He suspected Anderson and Donovan were behind this.

"It's a case John. Finally!" Sherlock said with excitement. He grabbed his friend by the arms, and spun him round. John realized that he was cuddly, but this was bloody uncomfortable. He squirmed until Sherlock got the hint and released the doctor.

"Sherlock, I have absolutely no intention of dressing in drag so you can find a drug dealer. That's too far, even for you!"

"John, think about it. You and me, taking down the biggest drug lord in London!" Sherlock said, grinning. "Besides, you'd make a lovely pimp."

"_Excuse me?_ No, you said crossdressers, not sleazy criminals!"

"Well, how did you think we were going to get close to him? You're not actually going to be selling me off of course." He paused, and smiled again, this time with malice. Sherlock rifled through some papers, continuing his thought. "We need a way to get close to the heart of this operation, and the only option is under cover. It'll only be for a week."

John was stunned. A week? Of reporting back to Lestrade, covered in glitter and day old make-up? Not bloody likely.

"John, fetch me my revolver."

"What? Why?"

"Always asking questions. You know we'd get more done around here if you didn't question everything I did." Sherlock walked to the open doorway.

"Mrs. Hudson!" He called out. There was no answer. Sherlock walked down stairs, and into Mrs. Hudson's room. Snooping around, he found a dresser full of clothing. Pulling a few of the delicate garments out out, he laid them flat on the bed.

"Have your pick."

Again, the doctor was speechless at his friend's actions. "This is wrong on so many levels. You've just raided the room of our elderly landlady, who is like our mother, mind you, in search of suitable clothes to make us look like rent boys?" He was out of breath. This was maddening, confusing, and slightly fun all at once.

"Stop whining," Sherlock said, picking up a chemise and holding it in front of him. "Does this color go well with my eyes?" said the detective, batting his eyelashes.  
John nodded immediately. _Subtle, John. Fantastic job!_ The voices in his head were slowly wearing his ego down.

Sherlock removed his coat and set it on the bed, then slid the garment over what he was already wearing. "Be honest, John. This makes my arse look big, doesn't it?" Sherlock chuckled as he spun for the doctor.

John strode up to his flatmate and pressed the back of his hand firmly on Sherlock's forehead. "Well, not sick. Maybe all those years as a junkie caught up to you?"

"Pardon? Unlike _someone _I know, I put pride into my work." John just shrugged.

"Let's go shopping if we must."

"Shopping?" Sherlock's face scrunched up into a look of disapproval. "If you're buying."

"Says the trust-fund boy. I'll buy my things if you buy yours."

"No deal. I'll stick with this." Sherlock says, holding up a dress that looked as old as him. It was black, with white faded flowers. John rubbed a calloused hand over his face.

"No, just...No. I'll pay for yours too. Just...please, don't wear _that._"

"Fine." Sherlock said as he began shoving Mrs. Hudson's clothing back into their drawers, not bothering to fold them. He put his coat back on, and began walking upstairs.

"I'm still going to need that revolver, John."

The pair exited Baker Street with cash in hand. John didn't want any memory of this excursion to be recorded, numerically or otherwise. The manager of Speedy's waved to John and Sherlock as they walked towards a nearby taxi. John waved back half-heartedly and Sherlock gave a curt nod, turning to hail the driver before the car could take off down the busy street.

Sherlock stepped into the cab first, as always. John consulting detective looked to the other man. "You're covering this as well. This was _your _idea."

"Always the gentleman," sighed John as he directed the cabbie to drive them downtown. They pulled up in front of Westfield, a popular shopping centre in the heart of London. John paid the driver and the two of them exited the cab.

"If we were a pimp and his whore, where would we shop?" Sherlock said, walking into the centre, passing shop after shop. Louis Vuitton, Jimmy Choo, All Saints, Ted Baker, and Westwood were laid out in neat rows. John was thankful that Sherlock was avoiding these shops, considering they were all way out of the doctor's price range. The taller man began wandering deeper into London, seeking out the underground shops filled with tight plastics and bright colors. John looked at his surroundings as they became more and more unfamiliar.

"Sherlock, where are we?" John said, a bit frightened by the area.

"Less talking, more walking" Sherlock said, turning back to meet his friends gaze for a moment. From the look the detective gave him, John relaxed a bit. He trusted his friend, and for some odd reason, felt safe with him, even in this dark, mysterious, and probably unsanitary place.

"This is better." Sherlock said as he stopped in front of an old brick building. Hung on the establishment, if one could call it that, was a metal sign that read "The Pit". In the window, a mannequin was clothed in a tight silver dress with tall boots and hot pink fishnets. The two men entered the shop. It was dimly lit, and everything was painted an inky black, dark shades of blue and red accenting the walls. The smell of incense and water damage filled their lungs as they walked through the aisles of the store. Sherlock reached for any rack of clothing that interested him. He plucked a pair of sequined pants from the metal rod and held them in front of the lower half of John's body, sizing him up.

"Yes, this will do" he said, shoving them into John's hands. "Those." He scanned the aisles with a keen eye, grabbed garments, and shoved them at his friend. "And that."

"Stop," said John. He stood in silence, waiting for Sherlock to turn around and notice his friend staying put behind him. "If _I'm _buying, then _I'm _choosing what we wear. Or at least what I wear." John put the horrific pants down and continued to argue with Sherlock.

The pair didn't notice one of the shop's attendants approaching them as they bickered. She was petite, blue haired, and sported at least ten different piercings. "Can I help you two blokes?" The small woman asked, eyeing the two men. "Looking for a bit of a honeymoon get-up?" She grinned, snake bites fanning out on her thin lower lip.

"No," they both said in unison. "And we're not married," John added, indignant. The girl backed away, snickering and shoving her hands in her skintight jeans.

"Fine then, John. What would you like to wear? It doesn't matter either way, I'm the only one here that could look desirable in any of this anyways."

That comment smarted, but a hardened military man like John would never let it show. At least that's what he kept telling himself. He sniffed haughtily, turned on the heel of his sensible shoe and began perusing the store. The fabrics in the store were nothing like those in his closet, but he soldiered on. He selected a black, sleeveless fishnet tank and a pair of gunmetal raver pants. The shoes he chose were thick platform boots that looked like they belonged on an alien space station. Topping it off, he selected a stack of multi colored jelly bracelets and eyeliner. It was embarrassing how much thought he was putting into his outfit, and the thought of wearing these garments made him turn bright red.

Sufficiently humiliated, he turned back to Sherlock, eyebrow raised expectantly.

"How's this?" Said the doctor, holding up the clothing for Sherlock to see.

Sherlock stared at John's choices. "Pants?" He said with a sigh. "Fine. Go try them on. Then we'll see"

John took in a deep breath, and exhaled so that Sherlock would hear him. Walking towards the back of the shop, he waved down the blue haired girl.

"A room please."

Behind him Sherlock had managed to grab a few bright pieces of clothing.

"Two?" asked the girl.

"Just one will do." responded Sherlock and he came up behind John. The doctor actually wheezed.

He whispered harshly, "what are you doing, you git? I can change by myself, I don't need to hold mummy's hand anymore!"

"But we'd waste so much time coming in and out.. And time is money, John."  
"Since when did you start talking like Mycroft?" Sherlock smiled at this.  
"Since I realized how much time we waste acting all domestic." Sherlock took the key for the one room from the attendant. Walking up to the little black door, he unlocked the dressing room, stepped in the small space, and hung his belongings behind the door. "Coming?"  
"Fine. But Lestrade never hears about this, okay?"  
"No promises," he said, smiling. John cursed quite creatively. He stepped into the dressing room with Sherlock holding the door open.  
"Ladies first," Sherlock said with a grin. The lanky man narrowly avoided the doctor's kick to his Achilles tendon. He followed John into the little space and closed the door. It wasn't as cramped as expected, and it even had a little cushioned stool in the corner. Sherlock automatically plopped down on his new small throne and crossed his legs, looking like he was ready for Fashion Week.  
"Look, if you want me to drop trou while you dissect me with your eyes, you've got another thing coming. It's not decent!"  
"Oh come on John. We're both men here...Unless there's something you're not telling me." All Sherlock received was an unamused glare from his companion.  
"Fine." John began to strip off his clothes in a huff. He threw his plaid shirt at Sherlock's face. Catching it and tossing it to the side, Sherlock turned his head eagerly. The doctor continued to undress until he was standing in nothing but his blue boxers, feeling exposed and a bit cold.  
"Hand me..._something_," John said, his arms wrapped around himself, making due with this minimal coverage. Sherlock rolled his eyes and grabbed the pants, lifting his arm slightly and generally being of no help. John snatched the pants from him, pulling them on one leg at time. They slid easily over his trim hips, but they were awkwardly tight around his groin and bum. After a few seconds of adjusting, he managed to position himself so it didn't feel like he was being castrated.  
There was an unsettling grin on Sherlock's face as John put on each of his garments. Finally, when the doctor was finished dressing, he paused as if waiting some sort of approval from his friend.  
The fishnet shirt was odd, and not in a way that John particularly liked. He felt that if this ensemble didn't suit the part, he didn't know what would. "Can I take this off? I feel like a ruddy kid!"  
Sherlock smiled. "Yes, fine. That should do. My turn?"  
John nodded, rubbing the back of his neck.

Sherlock stood up, giving John his seat. He removed his coat, hanging it up neatly on a hanger, then his blazer, and so on. John could see this made his friend very uncomfortable. Sherlock had never been intimate with anyone, and John really didn't want to be his first encounter.

"I-I can leave if you like." The doctor's cheeks were pink and burning. Sherlock waved his hand in dismissal.

"No, I'm fine." He unbuttoned his wine colored shirt slowly, making sure he didn't wrinkle the expensive fabric. It slid off of his thin shoulders, exposing his sun-starved skin and prominent bone structure. All John could think was that the man needed to eat more. And that he was very pretty.

After the consulting detective had disrobed, he plucked the tight dress off the hanger and slid it over his torso. He wriggled about in the dress, finding it to be constricting. John just failed to hold in his giggles. The garment finally fell into place and Sherlock exhaled forcefully.

He had to admit, he looked damn good in that dress. It was a blood red piece with straps crisscrossing over the torso and waist. It accented his thin hips and long legs. "Good? Can we go now?" Sherlock was obviously bothered by all of this. This made John feel a bit embarrassed by the amusement he took in all of this. But with that being said, the detective had most of this coming.

"I'll step out." he said, gathering the clothes he'd picked out. "Meet me at the register."

Once Sherlock and John had wandered back into the main part of the shopping centre, John spoke. There had been a long awkward silence in their walk back to the centre and it was becoming more and more apparent something needed to be said. What that something was ,however, was still a mystery to the doctor. And knowing full well the detective would never be the one to break the ice, John took the opportunity to begin conversation.

"Do we need any milk?" Asked the doctor.

Sherlock gave John a disdainful look. "What is it with you and your fixation on milk?"

"Hey! I don't have a fixation, you sod! I'm just wondering!" They continued to walk in silence. Every now and again, Sherlock would pause to admire an outfit on a mannequin or sniff the air for whatever reason.

When they arrived back at the city square, Sherlock hailed a cab and stepped inside. As John was about to step in to join him, Sherlock closed the door on him. The window of the cab still open, John leaned over into it, angry at being cut off..

"This is my cab. I'll see you at the flat in an hour." Sherlock said, paying the cabbie. The detective rolled up the window, and drove off.

John reached in his pocket for his phone and pulled it out. Trying to think of something to write, he held the phone in his hands. Typing then deleting anything he wrote, again and again. Finally he decided, and pressed "send"

**Where are you? -JW**

John walked over to a bench and sat down. His phone buzzed.

**In a cab. Obviously. Trying to think. -SH**

That didn't help at all. John sat fuming on the bench, perplexed and angry in his favorite cuddly jumper. He typed another angry little text. Sent.

**Where are you going then? -JW **

His phone buzzed again. He hesitated for a moment, then picked it up. Reading the message, he tightened his fist with each word.

**Doesn't matter. See you at the flat in 20 min. -SH**

John figured nothing was going to get done by bickering back and forth via text, so he stood up and hailed a cab. stepping inside he directed the cabbie.

"221B Baker Street Please. And take your time."

The cab ride was long and uncomfortable. John felt odd and slightly put out by the earlier spat with Sherlock. He knew he shouldn't feel that way. It was just Sherlock being himself.

Doctor Watson trudged heavily up the stairs of his Baker Street residence and pushed the door open with more force than was necessary. The sight that greeted him was odd to say the least.

Sherlock sat in the middle of the sitting room in a half-lotus position. He had pushed all the other furniture out of the way to make space for himself.

"What in Hell are you doing?" asked John, looking around at the room.

"I'm thinking," replied Sherlock. His tone was low and quick. "Give me your phone."

John did as he was told. Grabbing it, the detective dialed a number and held it up to his ear.

"Who are you-." He was cut off by an angry glare coming from his friend, obviously demanding that he stay quiet.

"Yes, hello." Sherlock practically sang. His voice was much higher and softer. He was obviously trying to imitate a female. And he was surprisingly good at it.

There was a murmuring on the other side of the phone that John couldn't quite make out. Sherlock waited, and then spoke again. His voice was almost mesmerizing, and...sweet. Which was something Sherlock never was.

"You'll have to speak to my associate about all that dear." He said to the mysterious voice on the other end of the line. Taking the phone away from his ear and holding it up into the air for John.

Bollocks. What was he supposed to do? John felt his face heat up as he grabbed the phone. "Yes, this is Pence, what do you want?" That was probably the gayest thing John had ever said. _And what the hell was Pence?_ Well, it did sound pretty gay.

"Pence." Said the voice behind the phone. It was deep, and rather frightening, for just a voice. "When can you bring her in?"

" Um...I think I can do it, like, tomorrow night, or somethin'. But, hon, you gotta know my schedule is packed, okay?" John returned Sherlock's incredulous glare with an annoyed eye roll.

"Tomorrow night. Midnight. Meet me in the Underground station at the East end of Hackney. Bay One. Got it?"

"Got it." Replied John.

"Good. Just one girl, right?"

"Yes. Just one. My best girl." John wasn't quite sure why he said that. He looked to Sherlock, who grinned at what he took as a compliment.

"Alright. See you then." Before John could respond there was a 'click' and the line went dead.

"Well, I think that went as well as any pimping job can go." John had dropped the homosexual twang in his voice and rubbed the back of his neck.

John returned the phone to his pocket, and sat down next to Sherlock who was still sitting on the floor.

"John, fetch me my revolver. And get your gun too." John sighed, exasperated.  
"Sherlock, I'm not your maid. Every single time I go to sit, you order me to get up and fetch you something like a bloody trained dog!"  
"John. Hackney is one of the most dangerous places in London. And the Underground station is infamous for its high crime rate. If you want to go meet the biggest drug lord in London at midnight, unarmed, be my guest."  
"You're completely missing the point! Don't you even listen when I speak?"

"And you're completely missing mine," Sherlock said, getting to his feet. "If we're going to do this, and do it right, we need to be prepared."

John exhaled loudly and tugged at the sleeve of his shirt. "But I'm trying to-, you know what? Fine, I'll just go."

"Go where?" Sherlock asked, pausing and turning around to look at John. "It's not 'til tomorrow night. Besides, don't you have a date tonight?"

John sneered at Sherlock. He did indeed have a date, with a school teacher he met at the pub a few nights back. "Been reading my emails again, have you?"

Sherlock just sat cross legged on the couch, fingers steepled under his nose. He made no effort to move whatsoever. It only served to anger John more.

After a few calming breaths, the doctor finally calmed down. "Look, I'm sorry I blew up at you. Can we leave on a high note?"

Sherlock shrugged. "So you are going out with that boring teacher tonight? When we have so much to prepare for tomorrow?"

John laughed wryly. "You really don't want me to date, do you?"

"That's not-That's irrelevant. No. I want you to focus on the case John. Unless you want to drop the case and hand me my revolver." Sherlock looked to the wall where there was still obvious bullet holes from the last time Sherlock was bored. John frowned.

"No. You know Mrs. Hudson won't stand for that. Although she would never kick you out. She loves you."

Sherlock ignored John's comment about Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock walked over to John's computer, picking it up and sitting down.

"So, I'll cancel that date then?"

All John could do was smile sheepishly and shrug.

The rest of John's night was spent watching Sherlock pace back and forth, play the violin and change his patches. Hourly. When it got dark, the doctor concluded there wasn't much he could do to assist his friend in whatever it was he was trying to do. John bid Sherlock goodnight and headed up to bed. Sherlock, of course ignoring his farewell, continued on. John reached his room and put his night clothes on, falling thankfully into his bed. He wrapped his sheets and blankets around him in a little cocoon, and drifted off to sleep.

John awoke to a loud clattering and what sounded like an explosion. Unaware of the time, he hurried out of bed and down the stairs, rushing into the kitchen where Sherlock was sitting. On the table was a vast amount of petri dishes, chemicals and beakers.

"What in the hell are you doing?" Asked the doctor. He looked to the clock on the wall, realizing it was three in the morning.

"Working," replied the detective, eyes fixed on pouring an unknown substance from one test tube into another. John wasn't pleased with this response.

"Do you have any idea what time it is?" He said, walking over to the table and having a closer look at everything on it. "Could you maybe do this in the morning?"

Sherlock sighed. "It _is _morning, John."

"Sherlock. It's early, and I need-," John was cut off by the detective.

"Not now John." Sherlock raised his hand as if to shoo away the doctor.

John was extremely frustrated by this and he grabbed Sherlock's hand. The one that was currently holding a full beaker. This caused him to drop it and the contents smashed all over the floor. Sherlock looked down to the broken glass. The substance that had burnt a small hole into the wood flooring. He looked up at John with anger.

Mrs. Hudson's voice trilled from around the corner. "Sherlock? Is that you? Is everything all ri-," the elderly woman walked into the kitchen, and her gaze flew to the floor immediately. "Sherlock! What have you done to my floor?"

"I'll clean it up." John said, glaring angrily at the detective. "You should go back to bed." He escorted his landlady down the hall to her room and came back to confront Sherlock. He was angry and tired. The doctor grabbed the broom and dustpan out of the closet and began sweeping up the mess. When he was finished, he stood angrily in front of his friend, "No more of this. We have to be up late tonight. And I need my sleep. Go to bed. Now." Sherlock was surprised with the dominance in John's voice. Usually the doctor was a calm and collected man. Sherlock might have even thought he was afraid of fighting with his flatmate. The taller man stood up, walking to his room, stopping at the door.

"Fine. Goodnight John."

John huffed, although he was relieved the detective didn't put up a fight. "Goodnight Sherlock. See you in the morning."

"It's already morning"

The sandy haired doctor awoke the next morning to find Sherlock passed out on the sofa. He looked like a child that had been fighting the urge to rest their eyes. His lashes were fanned out on his white cheeks. If a stranger had seen Sherlock now, they would have thought him to be a heavenly being of some sort. If only they knew what an absolute prat he was.

John walked to the kitchen and made himself a cup of tea. He had planned on sitting at the kitchen table, but it was still loaded with Sherlock's experiments. He walked back into the room quietly, expecting the detective to still be asleep on the couch, but he was nowhere to be found. John looked around for a moment, shrugged, and sat down where Sherlock had been laying. It was still warm.

Sherlock came in through the door and walked over to the window, staring out it, not bothering to speak.

"What's wrong, Sherlock?"

"Nothing." There was a long pause. "About last night John-"

The doctor stopped his friends. "It's all fine."

"I wasn't apologizing."

"Of course you weren't," the doctor sighed. "What were you going to say then?"

Sherlock continued. "The substance, that you smashed out of my hands." John looked at the detective, staying silent. "It's made up of Daphne and Castor beans," he smiled.

John stared at his friend, not knowing what either of those were.

"They're plants John. Poisonous. Lethal. Plants. The Castor bean is one of the deadliest plant poison on earth. Just one tiny castor bean is enough to kill an adult within a few minutes. And Daphne, it causes burns to the mouth and digestive tract, followed by coma."

"How is this relevant? At all?"

"It's relevant because it's how we're going to catch Bastian Vandemar."

"Wha-? How?"

"You never listen, John," Sherlock sighed.

"Is that so? Well, oh wise detective, how about you explain this to me and I'll listen _really closely._"

"We're going to meet Bastian's men tonight at midnight. At which point _you _are going to present me. Once they decide they like me, which they will, you're going to tell them that you have another large selection of women you want to show. But you're only willing to do so if you can present them and me to Bastian directly. Are you caught up now?"

"Yes, yes. But I have no idea why the poisonous plants are relevant."

"Because we're bringing alcohol." Sherlock smiles. Finally, John was beginning to follow the detective's plan.

"Ah, so the plants will be in the drinks? And then, we'll give the drinks to Vandemar and his men?" John was a bit confused on the last part still. "Won't that kill them?"

Sherlock sighed, letting a long rush of hot air pass through his lips. "Yes, John. That's usually the point of administering poison." The detective cracked his neck and took off his blazer. "So! The real trick is getting them to drink it."

"Sherlock. You do understand that's illegal?"

"Yes, I'm well aware of the laws. But it won't be that bad."

"No, we're not going to do that. We can knock them out, we can tie them up, we can draw on their faces with markers if you like, but we're not going to kill them."

Sherlock was silent for a beat. "Well, that's no fun. Can we at least put them into comas?"

"No. Lestrade wouldn't be very happy about that."

"Fine. What did you have in mind? Since you're the doctor?"

"I suggest we use a sort of sedative. You can mix up a water soluble one, yeah?"

"Then what am I supposed to do with the thousand dollars worth of poisonous plants I bought?" Sherlock paused. "That reminds me, I used your card."

"Are you bloody serious?"

"Why, was I not supposed to?"

"Sherlock, I can't afford that. You didn't think to drain off of Mycroft? Army pension, remember?"

"It had to be untraceable." Sherlock saw the anger in his friend's eyes.

"You couldn't use cash?"

"I don't carry a thousand dollars cash on me John. That'd be absurd. I'll pay you back."


End file.
